Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
CADEN
I realized when I got back from Dad’s office that I forgot to ask about the private investigator.
Luckily, Daisy has all the information. I call him first thing the following morning.
“Fred Norman speaking,” a deep male voice says.
“Hi Fred, this is Caden Everton,” I say. “Russell Everton’s son.”
“The infamous Caden,” Fred says with a chuckle. “Your father has told me a lot about you.”
He has? I don’t want to explore that comment. I can only imagine the picture Dad painted of the deadbeat, runaway son.
“What can I do for you?” Fred continues.
“I got a call from my friend—he’s a sheriff’s deputy here in Magnolia Bay—and he says they’re going to stop working on my mother’s case since there are no new leads.”
Fred sighs. “Yes, that happens with cold cases, unfortunately.”
“He’s managed to get the sheriff to keep it active through the end of the summer,” I say. “Which means I’ve got two months to try and find some new evidence.”
“That’s a tall order,” Fred says. “There wasn’t much to go on, you know.”
“That’s what everyone keeps saying. But isn’t there an expression about fresh eyes or something?”
Fred chuckles. “You watch a lot of cop shows?”
“Not really,” I admit.
“Good. They’re all full of shit. Crime solved at the end of an hour, neat and tidy. That’s not how things work in the real world.”
I like Fred’s no-nonsense attitude. “Right,” I say. “Well, I was wondering if you could send me anything you’ve got. My friend said he can’t really share his files with me?—”
“Nah, you’d need to file a FOIA request and that would take ages.”
“A what?”
“Freedom of Information Act. But listen, I’m happy to send over my own files. Give me your email address and I’ll send it over today.”
“Thanks, Fred,” I say eagerly. “You’re a lifesaver.”
“Your father was none too pleased with my results. But I told him—without DNA or fingerprints, or even a bullet, there’s just nothing to go on.”
“So I keep hearing,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Good luck,” Fred says. “And let me know if I can help in any way. Your mother’s case was a real heartbreaker. She seemed like a very good woman.”
My throat tightens. “She was.”
I decide to set up shop in a room we call the blue study.
It’s in a quiet corner on the western side of the house, and there should still be an old laptop in it I can use. Daisy used to keep her dollhouse in there, and Mom used the study to write correspondence, Christmas cards and thank you notes and stuff like that. I walk through the halls, past the library and the home movie theater, and to where it’s nestled by the portrait of my great-grandmother. I open the door and find a cheerful room much like I remember. The walls are painted blue, and there’s an ivory loveseat, wooden bookshelves, and a small desk with the laptop still on it. Some paintings from local artists adorn the walls and the windows look out onto Mom’s garden.
There’s a framed photograph on the desk—Mom and Dad on their wedding day, a posed picture surrounded by bridesmaids and groomsmen. My chest pinches as I pick it up. They got married at Everton. Mom said it was one of the happiest days of her life.
I wonder where Isla will get married. Probably some expensive hotel in the city. Or maybe she’s having a destination wedding—I picture her barefoot on the beach in a white dress, with Luke by her side. My chest constricts so sharply I grip the desk for support and squeeze my eyes shut. I try to banish the image from my mind but it’s imprinted like a sun flare on the back of my lids.
I sit down and force myself to focus. I press a button and wait as the laptop hums to life. I see Fred’s email, with a whole bunch of attachments. I skip the ones titled “Autopsy” and “Crime Scene Photos.” Fred left a note in the email that he only sent the most non-explicit photos but regardless, I’m not ready for that yet.
Instead, I open one called “911 Transcript.” I see Fred has written transcript of 911 call from R. Everton, 6:42 am, June 22 nd at the top of the page.
Operator: 911, what’s your emergency?
RE: Oh my god…help me…something is wrong with my wife.
Operator: Okay, what’s wrong with her?
RE: I don’t know…she’s bleeding…Marion!
Operator: Sir, where are you calling from?
RE: This is Russell Everton, goddammit! I’m at Everton Estate, 935 Magnolia Way. Marion…
Operator: I’ve got police and an ambulance on the way. You say your wife is bleeding?
RE: (moaning) Marion…oh god…
Operator: Sir?
RE: Somebody shot her! Get your people down here now!
Operator: Is she breathing?
RE: I don’t…I don’t know.
Operator: Okay, do you know CPR?
RE: No…Marion!
Operator: Sir, I’m going to need you to check and see if she’s breathing. I want you to look at her chest. Is it moving?
(Long pause)
RE: No. No it’s not moving.
Operator: Okay, where are you in the house?
RE: Outside. In her pottery shed. I’m not…oh my god, is she dead? Marion! (sobbing)
Operator: Sir, I’m going to need you to step outside the shed, okay? Don’t touch anything. The police are on their way.
My heart is racing like I’ve run ten miles. Dad found her? I can’t imagine the horror of that moment. It’s shocking to see it written out so clinically in black and white. I close it and open the next file labeled “Summary.” It’s a single typed page.
Marion Everton, white female, age 55. Cause of death, GSW to the chest. Manner of death, homicide. No forensics found at crime scene. No fingerprints, DNA, no bullet, no casing. Revolver as MW? From size of wound, caliber likely .357, 9mm, or .38. Police theorize attempted burglary. No CCTV—cameras only face front and back doors. Family cleared—C. Everton not home but alibied. All other family members accounted for. No one seen entering or exiting the house between M. Everton exiting back door at 5:52 am and R. Everton exiting back door at 6:41 am. 911 call made 6:42 am. Victim pronounced dead at the scene.
I see another file labeled “Interviews with Family.”
The first interview is with Daisy.
FN: Thank you for talking to me. I know you’ve been through this with the police already, but your father wanted me to go over everything.
DE: I know.
FN: You don’t need to be nervous.
DE: I’m not.
FN: Can you tell me what you saw or heard that morning?
DE: I didn’t hear much of anything. It was really early in the morning—the party went until around two and I went to bed right after. My room is in the front of the house. I can’t hear what happens in the backyard.
FN: And how did you become aware that something had happened to your mother?
DE: I…woke up when my sister Von—Siobhan—came into my room. And then I heard sirens.
FN: What did Siobhan say to you?
DE: (sobs) That Mom had been shot. I didn’t understand her. She told me to get out of bed. That’s when all the police got to our house. The sheriff said we needed to wait outside.
I close the file. I know what happened next. I arrived shortly after, with Isla and Noah. I saw my siblings gathered in the driveway.
Then they took Mom’s body away.
This feels wrong. I don’t want to read interviews about my family’s experiences. I should talk to them each myself. Like I did with Finn. This feels too…intrusive. Voyeuristic.
A couple of hours later, I’ve gone through all of Fred’s files except the autopsy and the crime scene photos and I’m beginning to understand why everyone keeps warning me not to get my hopes up.
There’s nothing here. And lots of terminology I don’t understand. Mom’s death is feeling at once too real and present, and also too clinical and removed. It’s jarring. I’m going to have to talk to Noah about all this. I text him but he says he’s working the next few days and promises to meet up when he’s free.
I’m feeling itchy and confined and tired of looking at a screen. I decide to head into town. Maybe I can talk to some people who were at the party—since the whole town was invited. Even though the shooting was in the early morning, after the party had finished, maybe people saw something suspicious or heard something the night before. I don’t know. It seems like a better option than sitting in here looking at files I don’t understand.
And maybe you’ll see Isla, a voice in the back of my mind whispers.
I swat it away.
She’s getting married, I remind myself.
But still, my thoughts flit back to the way her tank top glowed over her smooth tanned skin, hugging her slender frame. I see her bottle-green eyes flashing as she demanded to know where I’d been, bringing the aching possibility that she’s thought about me all this time. The way I’ve thought about her.
I thought about her every damn day, in fact. Now that I’ve seen her, it’s become crystal clear how present she was in my mind, even if I was desperately trying to pretend she wasn’t. The box I kept her in was made of glass—she was contained but always there.
She’s engaged , I remind myself again. God, it hurts to even think the words. Shocking, like a punch to the gut.
I leave the study and head out the front door into the afternoon sunshine. There’s no sign of Alex or the town car. I wish I had my motorcycle. I saved up for a year to buy it. I took out a bunch of cash when I first landed in Argentina, then lived frugally for nearly a year, until I met Sebastian. It’s amazing how far money can be stretched when you don’t have many needs and don’t mind where you sleep. It was more important that my father couldn’t trace me than staying in five-star hotels.
The motorcycle was an old piece of junk, but Sebastian taught me how to fix it.
I know how to do so many things I never used to—how to patch a hole in a roof, how to mend my own clothes. How to clean a wine press, how to operate a crusher. And yet in so many ways I feel like I’m still stuck in that day five years ago. I can remember waking up with Isla in my arms as clearly as I can remember waking up in my bed this morning.
I try to be happy for Isla, test out that feeling. It sours in my chest. I do want her to be happy. But not with Luke.
The huge veranda that surrounds the lodge is about half filled with tourists. I see Daisy flitting from table to table, pouring wine, checking on the guests, laughing and telling stories about Everton or asking people where they’re from. She’s very good at this. A real natural. I used to help with tastings sometimes, on the days Dad had a light schedule. I enjoyed geeking out over my family’s product, watch people having fun. Even though I never actually worked at the winery the way I do at Catarina Azul, I still knew everything about the wines. Our winemaker, John, is a very traditional, very old-fashioned guy when it comes to style.
I start to turn the dreams I used to have for Everton over in my mind and think of how I could apply the things I’ve learned in Argentina. The environmentally friendly packaging we could use. Putting solar panels on the lodge and on the outbuildings where the presses and crushers are. Hell, we could even put panels along the edge of the vineyards, the larger ones that aren’t seen by tourists. I could implement some of the methods Sebastian uses to conserve water and maintain healthy soil.
“Cade!” Daisy breaks apart my thoughts as she hurries up to me, reminding me that I’m not here to change Everton. I’m not part of Everton at all. “You’ll be here for dinner, right?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“Good. Dad’s going to be home!”
I immediately wish I’d made other plans. Daisy must read my expression because she folds her arms over her chest.
“You already said you’d be here so no backing out. And Von said she’d come too.
I was worried she’d cancel like she usually does but she just texted me to say she’ll be here. That job of hers is crazy. She works like eighty hours a week. But I’m going to make Mom’s pasta sauce tonight!” Daisy beams. Her strawberry blonde hair is braided into two plaits, and she wears a short black apron with the Everton logo over her jeans.
“Really?” I say. The memory of Mom’s famous pasta sauce bubbling away on the stove and filling the kitchen with the scent of tomato and garlic brings me back to being a kid again.
“I hope I don’t screw it up. It’ll be nice to have the whole family home,” Daisy says. But her voice is tinged with sadness. It will never be the whole family. There will always be someone missing. She perks back up again. “Do you want to help with the tastings?”
“I’m heading into town actually. Thought I’d talk to some people who were at the party.”
My sister’s face brightens, like that’s the best idea she’s ever heard. I don’t know what I did to deserve a sister like Daisy. “That’s a great idea! Was Fred any help?”
“He sent me his files,” I say, feeling a twinge at the memory of his interview with her. “But…well, I need to talk to Noah about some things.”
I sound much more self-assured than I feel. Daisy’s eyes widen.
“Wow. This is great, Cade. You’re really doing it. Maybe we can finally get some answers.”
I feel a sudden burst of apprehension. This isn’t just about me needing answers. My whole family deserves them too. I don’t want to let them down. I glance around at some of the empty tables. “Business seems a little thin.”
Daisy sighs. “It’s picking up,” she says. “But yeah. We took a pretty big hit after Mom died and…” She purses her lips. “Anyway, every year gets better.”
“Right,” I say. I give her a quick hug. “See you for dinner.”
“Do you want to borrow my car?” Daisy asks.
“You know what,” I say. “I think I’ll walk.”
I give her a wave and head out onto the road. The last time I took this walk was with Isla. It was on this very street that I confessed my plans to make Everton sustainable, a dream I’d not dared to voice aloud to anyone. And she told me about her wish to go to Paris. We were both so full of hope then.
I wonder if Luke has taken her to Paris yet. He certainly can afford to. I hope they did it her way—she said no luxury hotels or fancy restaurants. She wanted to do Paris the Isla Davenport way. She wanted to eat crepes from a street vendor and drink cheap Bordeaux on the Pont des Arts.
The memory expands in my chest, pushing the air from my lungs. I barely see the trees that line the road or hear the hum of bees.
Which is probably why I don’t notice the car trailing alongside me at first.
“Caden Everton!”
I jump and turn to see old Mrs. Greerson. Her iron-gray hair is in its usual bob and she wears oversized glasses, a yellow cardigan, and a blunt expression.
“I heard you were back,” she continues sternly.
“I am,” I say, gesturing at myself.
“Hmph. Took you long enough.”
I feel an odd pang in my chest, a tickle of nostalgia. Mrs. Greerson never was one to beat around the bush.
She looks me up and down and I notice her critical eye resting on my tattooed sleeve. “Well, don’t just stand there. You’re going into town, I assume? Get in. I have to take this damned car into Reggie’s. It’s acting up again.”
“I’m fine to wa?—”
“Did I stutter?” Mrs. Greerson says. “Get in the car, Caden.”
I do as I’m told. Once I fasten my seatbelt, I look up to find her peering at me intently. Her eyes linger on my face, then down the length of my arm again.
“You certainly look different,” she says.
I can’t help the chuckle that escapes my lips. I missed this—Mrs. Greerson always used to razz me, even when I was helping mow her lawn or carrying her groceries home. It’s a familiar sort of judgement with no bite to it. She hits the accelerator and I instantly grab onto the armrest. It seems in the five years I was gone, Mrs. Greerson’s driving has somehow gotten even worse. The car swerves and veers dangerously close to either the yellow line or the sidewalk as we head into town. She keeps up a running commentary, informing me of every change in the town over the past five years. I drink it all in eagerly.
“Dev and Reggie are trying to adopt,” she says. “They’ll be wonderful parents but my lord, Dev seems to think it’ll be all sunshine and roses. I told him children are hard work. It’s unforgiving being a parent. Just wait till they’re a teenager, I told him. Linda May Cheswick wants to go to beauty school and start a salon. I don’t like to judge but that girl is all thumbs. I wouldn’t have my hair cut by her if the choice was between her and one of Lyle Watson’s rescue dogs. Jake Stein took over the Screw. He’s a good man but the clientele has just gone downhill. All these screaming girls with penis straws and silly veils.” I nearly choke with laughter at Mrs. Greerson saying the word penis. “That’s not how you celebrate something as solemn and serious as marriage. Oh, Isla Davenport is engaged now.”
I resolve to keep my face expressionless, which becomes more difficult as she swerves sharply to avoid a squirrel.
“To Luke Richards,” she adds. Her mouth puckers into a frown. “Hmph,” she grumbles. I feel a sudden warmth for Mrs. Greerson.
“Yeah, that seems an odd match,” I say, hoping I sound casual.
“He’s a city boy, through and through,” Mrs. Greerson huffs. “With his watches and his flashy car. He doesn’t know this town or the people. Not like Isla. Such a sweet girl.”
The conversation comes to an abrupt and disappointing end as we pull up to Reggie’s Auto & Body Works, a few blocks off Main Street. It’s surprising how much the old garage has changed. It’s much bigger than it used to be, and with a fresh coat of paint. But the office is the same, with a sign overhead that looks like it’s straight out of the 1950s.
Mrs. Greerson lurches the car up to the open garage and I see Reggie’s legs poking out from under a familiar truck. My stomach gives a lurch as I recognize Tom Davenport’s ancient Toyota Tundra.
I get out of Mrs. Greerson’s car as quickly as I can, grateful that the ride is over. Reggie rolls himself out from under the truck and his face brightens when he sees me. I feel another wave of nostalgia, and a surge of happiness to see my old friend. Reggie is a good guy. He still has his walrus mustache, and the sleeves of his coveralls are rolled up to expose the tattoos from his time in the Navy.
“Caden!” he says, walking over to embrace me in one of those manly, two-slaps-on-the-back hugs. “I heard you were back in town. God, it’s good to see you. We missed you around here.” He glances at my sleeve. “Nice tats.”
“Thanks,” I say. “It’s good to see you too, Reg.”
“All right, enough chit chat,” Mrs. Greerson says, lodging herself between us. “Reginald Kramer, my car has crapped out again and you only just fixed it a month ago. Is this some kind of game you’re playing, young man? I know I’m old, but I won’t be taken advantage of.”
She pokes a finger in his face but Reggie just smiles good-naturedly. “I didn’t charge you last time, Mrs. Greerson, so really it’s you who’s running the scam on me.”
Mrs. Greerson glowers and glances back at her car. Reggie shoots me a wink and says, “Leave it here and I’ll take a look. Come back in an hour.”
Mrs. Greerson purses her lips. “Very well. One hour. I’ve got some shopping to do at Milton’s Market anyway.” She turns to me. “You’ll be here for Magnolia Day, right?”
“Oh, um…”
“Don’t you um at me. It hasn’t been the same since your mother died. That brother of yours, he’s all jokes and chuckles and nothing between his ears but fluff.”
I smile, thinking of how Alistair would probably love that description.
“Magnolia Day needs an Everton to lead it,” Mrs. Greerson says firmly.
“We’ll see,” I say.
“We’ll see,” Mrs. Greerson says in a poor imitation of my voice that garners another chuckle from Reggie. “What kind of answer is that? I’ll tell the mayor you’ll be there. Give a bit of oomph to the event. Lord knows this town could use it.”
She hands Reggie her keys then slings her netted tote bag over her shoulder and marches off.
“Some things never change,” Reggie says to me with a wink.
“What’s wrong with her car?” I ask as he gets in and starts it, pulling it into the spot next to the Davenport truck.
“Nothing,” Reggie says getting out. “I sneak over periodically and disable one of the cylinders. She shouldn’t be driving at all until she gets a new prescription for her glasses, but there’s no telling Martha Greerson what to do. Dev is slowly working on her, trying to suggest times to make appointments. She doesn’t think she needs it. And she hates doctors.”
“I remember,” I say with a chuckle.
Reggie shrugs. “This gets her off the road for a week at least And Dev and I drive her places when she needs it.” He grins at me. “We’re like the gay uncles she never had.”
I let out a loud laugh at that. Reggie is so easygoing, I find some of the tension inside me uncoiling. “This place looks great. Did you expand?”
“Yup,” Reggie says, his chest puffing out. “Bought the building next door. We can work on twice the amount of cars now at one time. Though Cody’s busy with a different project—hey! Cody!”
I turn and see Cody Briggs, the sheriff’s son, at the far end of the wide-open space. He’s got headphones in and is sanding a piece of wood perched on two sawhorses.
“Cody!” Reggie shouts, his voice echoing off the cement floor. Cody jumps and rips the headphones out. When he sees me, his eyes bug open wide.
“Holy shit,” he says, hurrying over to shake my hand. “Caden! Wow. Heard you were back.”
“What are you working on?” I ask.
“Oh, I’m making a couple of the booths for Magnolia Day,” Cody says. “Dev wants to do something a little different this year, and then Jake asked me if I could help make one for the Screw. It’s his first year hosting the booth as the owner. You heard he bought old man Sanderson out?”
“I did,” I say, wandering over to see what Cody is up to. “Nice work.” I run my thumb over the sanded plank and see some rough sketches laid out on a table. “You know, if you moved the shelves up here, the hinges could go here,” I say pointing. “Easier to move and the shelves would be at a better height.”
“Oh yeah?” Cody says, scratching his head. “Huh. Okay. Didn’t know you were into carpentry.”
I shrug. “I had to build a chicken coop a few months ago.”
“Wait, what?” Cody looks shocked. I guess it does sound objectively insane. I’m still the billionaire’s son around here.
But I liked building that coop. I like the sense of accomplishment that comes from working with my hands.
“Want any help with these?” I ask him. Cody brightens.
“Yeah,” he says enthusiastically.
He hands me some sandpaper and a Phillips head, and we get to work.
“Hey, Cody, you were at the anniversary gala five years ago, right?”
Cody looks up at me with pity in his eyes. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m really sorry about your mom.”
“Thanks,” I say. “Did you notice anything…weird?”
He frowns. “Weird like what?”
“I don’t know. Anyone acting strangely.”
“It was a long time ago,” he says apologetically. “Mostly I remember the food. And the free drinks.”
I force a chuckle. “Right.”
I need to hone my interrogation skills if I’m to find any relevant answers. It suddenly occurs to me that I missed an opportunity with Mrs. Greerson. She notices everything and has a bear trap memory, even if her eyesight isn’t what it used to be. I’ll have to seek her out another time. When she’s not driving.
Cody and I spend the next hour in the garage, sanding wood, fixing hinges, going over the designs and coming up with ways to make Dev’s booth shine. We decide on little nooks on the walls for various cheeses, and then tiered platforms on the front table where he can showcase the other products from the store as well, the local jams and honeys and pouches of mixed herbs. Reggie turns the radio to an oldies station and we fall into a comfortable pattern, moments of silence and focus interrupted by patches of conversation about nothing—local politics, how the Yankees are doing this year, the weather.
I’m just adding a layer of varnish to one of the finished walls when I hear footsteps.
I nearly drop my brush as Isla walks into the garage.